


The Death of Glitter

by glacis



Category: Star Wars Prequel Trilogy
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-01-29
Updated: 2010-01-29
Packaged: 2017-10-06 19:50:20
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,741
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/57168
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/glacis/pseuds/glacis
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>And now for something completely different ... Glitterdomia has been invaded by the Goths. It's up to our Intrepid Jedi to save the rainbow.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Death of Glitter

The Death of Glitter, a Star Wars VerySilly fic by Glacis. See http://www.castleskeep.net/Glitter.html for the original illustrated-ish version. Blame it on Curt Wild and the Master-Apprentice list.

It started out as any other mission. The people of Glitterdomia were in crisis. Blackness had descended on a planet known galaxy-wide for its sparkle, and hope was descending into hopelessness with the speed and grace of a mudslide. Yes, the worst had come to pass.

The Goths had invaded Glitterdomia.

The Jedi pair currently on station responded with their patented one-two punch of extreme diplomacy and raw energy, but Master Fraser and Padawan Kowalski were no match for the opposition. In a flash of red serge robe and wild hair, the pair disappeared into the heaving black mass.

The Jedi Council responded to an urgent cry for help by sending their most experienced field operatives, Master Napoleon and his Padawan Illya. A week passed. Two.

No word.

Then a coded transmission. One chilling word.

"Birdsong!"

In a panic, but not about to show it, the Council broke down and sent their alternate best field operatives, Master Ellison and his Padawan Sandburg. There had been much debate before disturbing this pair at their meditations - it had been a long and rocky road for them to complete their Master/Padawan bonding, and taking the cuffs off too early was a risk. But they ignored the pantherish growls and wolfish howls that met their command, and one of the more unusual Master/Apprentice pairings ever evolved went dutifully off to Glitterdomia.

And disappeared.

A third week passed, then a fourth.

Wisdom and fervor were deemed the next logical step to meet the escalating crisis. Master Yoda considered going himself, but, peering at himself in native costume, discarded the idea as unworkable. Blue eyeliner and sequins were not suitable attire for a being of such short stature. Next on the old Master roster was Master Methos, and his Padawan Scout. A-hem. Padawan Scot. Uhm. Padawan MacLeod.

They never made it to Glitterdomia. Slaughtering the boarding party from the HMS TimeBandit fried all the circuits on the shuttle, and it would be several decades before the crippled craft would drift back toward Coruscant. Happily, the replicators worked. And there were several bunks, so broken springs wouldn't be a problem.

Back home, panic got a chokehold on the Council and they dug their most menacing trio of field operatives out of the handy cryocrypt and defrosted them. Shivering slightly, swilling down great gulps of pure malt scotch to get the Force flowing again, Master Cowley and his paired Padawans Bodie and Doyle were tossed on the nearest transport, the Capriaia, and posted with haste to Glitterdomia.

Last transmission received was garbled almost to the point of being indecipherable, but seemed to point to a Soviet plot. Not having a clue that the Goths _were_ a Soviet, much less what a Soviet was, the Council took the final, irrevocable step.

They called Master George.

Well, actually, they called Master George's coterie of lawyers.

Eight months later, they got an answer back.

Not liking the idea of a lawsuit, given that Jedi have no worldly goods to lose but their robes, and the thought of Master Yoda disrobed struck terror in even the stoutest heart, the Council staged a raid. Ignoring the summary No Fucking Way from the Legal Powers, they snuck in under cover of blackest darkness and Jedi-napped the most powerful of all the Master/Apprentice pairs in the Galaxy.

Then, with a collective blush generating enough heat to power Endor for a year, they returned Darth Maul and went back for Qui Gon Jinn.

Once Master Jinn and Padawan Sexonastick ... er, Kenobi ... were safely cloistered on Coruscant, they were quickly brought up to speed.

Master looked at Padawan.

Padawan looked at Master.

Master and Padawan looked at the convened Council.

"No bloody way," they sang in chorus.

"No choice, have you," Master Yoda intoned, backed up by a triple mind whammy from Mace "Don't Fuck With Me" Windu. Qui Gon reeled back. Kenobi snarled.

The Council gasped.

Okay, this just might work.

Objects flew through the room at the speed of thought. Robes were torn from finely toned young flesh, silver leather was painted on, and crimson lip color vied with green glitterpowder and blackest kohl for first contact with that virgin face.

The carpets in the Council room were deluged with drool.

It would work. No way this could fail.

"The fate of the galaxy, or at least several Very Important Pairs (and One Trio) depend on you." Windu managed to speak almost coherently through the slack-jaw syndrome affecting everyone in the room with a pulse (and a corpse in the corner they hadn't realized had already Departed Into The Force).

"I can't do it, Master," young Kenobi moaned at Qui Gon. Qui Gon blinked.

"Hunh?" A trickle of drool dribbled into his beard.

"Fuck this." Young Kenobi swirled in place, hair bristling, face contorting as the paint flew off in every direction, much like a dog shaking off excess water. Windu ended up with the lip color, Yoda the kohl, and the green eye shadow glistened in the air like a miasma of murky pondwater seeded with diamonds.

Jinn sneezed.

Ignoring the stunned looks and desperate pleas for reason issuing from the combined minds of the Masters, Kenobi turned and stomped from the room. "Puh-leeze," he muttered. "Make-up! What sort of fockin' poof do they think I am?"

Jinn wandered out after him, mind still trying to wrap itself around the aftereffects of that moan. As the apprentice stomped all the way to the transport and his master followed, dazed and distracted, one thought zapped from the Council to the Jedi Master.

_SPORES._

Followed quickly by another.

_OIL._

And a third.

_LEATHER._

Then a fourth.

_SCREAMING PUNK._

Jinn collapsed inside the transport and resolutely blocked out the fifth and final instruction from the Council.

** _fund_ ** ** _raising_**

The stench of foul darkness could be, well, smelt, long before they reached their destination. The standard twinkle of stars around Glitterdomia were muted, and the planet itself gave the impression it was under a black out. The Jedi found themselves surrounded by pale humanoids with dark-rimmed eyes, dyed black hair, pasty white skin, black painted nails, and solid black clothing. That was before they left the dock.

The customs workers were cheery compared to the general populace.

Two weeks of snooping about, stealing into locked cages, staring forlornly at Jedi stuck in stasis fields like flies in amber, and being unable to break the communications jam around the planet finally broke Master Jinn's resolve. Knowing it was only a matter of time, he delicately brought up the matter at hand. The last chance they would have to complete their mission, before time and Darkness caught up with them and they ended up just two more flies in somebody's drop earrings.

Some of the Goths were pretty damned big.

"Padawan, you must go under cover."

Big blue eyes stared at him, disbelievingly. "No face paint, Master. There are many things I will do as a Jedi apprentice. Dressin' up like a woman and vamping a bunch of Goths are not one of 'em."

"Is." Jinn stared him down. Kenobi stared right back.

"Are."

"Is." Jinn's beard jutted out. Sloppy form in battle was one thing; poor grammar, quite another.

"No glitter."

He sighed and tried another tack. "It's the native custom, and we must blend in if we are to rescue our fellow Jedi and help the natives throw off this devastating darkness!"

"What's this 'we' shite, Master mine? I don't see **you** decked out like a hooker on acid, peddlin' your wares for the Undead out there. And you won't see **me** doin' it any time soon, either!"

Jinn sighed again. As always, the Council were right. He'd tried, in his own way, to buck the trend, and get away with murder, like usual, but in this instance it just wasn't working. And the darkness was getting closer - he could feel it. Nodding to his young apprentice, faking acceptance and masking the fake-out with a calm perfected over years (although not nearly as many as some would have one think), he nonchalantly picked an innocuous looking flower pod from a handy hedgerow.

"You must follow your conscience, Obi Wan," he sighed softly, making sure he was standing upwind. Waving the pod gently, presenting an astonishing likeness to a dead Irish poet from a time and galaxy far, far away, he dusted the pollen surreptitiously all over his apprentice's robe. "Weigh the choices you must make," as he brushed the light powder along Obi Wan's hands. "The fate of so many, against the pride of one."

Kenobi's hands rose, and he wiped the sweat from his face, streaking the talcum-fine dust into his skin. Jinn grinned, then stifled it, continuing his suggestions, hoping something would sink in.

"After all, how difficult is it? Some oil, some leather pants, a screaming attempt at music, a little glitter over your skin, a hand down your pants, a few wild gyrations, a harmless bid or two-"

AAAAA-CHOOOOO!

The pod exploded in the Master's hand as the fine powder worked its way up into Kenobi's sinuses. Jinn hit the deck with Force assisted reflexes, and escaped all but the finest dusting. The majority of the pollen settled on Obi Wan like a fine mist. Jinn rolled over and stared up at his apprentice.

"Padawan? Are you all right?"

Shady blue eyes, glittering gold and brown in the sunlight, stared down at him, becoming somnolent and sensual even as he watched. "Hey, Master," he growled, low in his throat. "Wanna be my Main Man?"

Jinn shuddered. Not in a bad way.

The Plan was underway. He just hoped he survived it.

As his usually grumpy Padawan climbed him like a tree-monkey and an agile tongue wound its way through the tangle of hair at the juncture of his neck and shoulder, he wondered, briefly, why he fought the Council so often. Every once in awhile, they had a really good idea.

Night came, and the plan was put into action. A lightning raid (and some inspired saber-slinging) made short work of the close-harmony Gregorian monks who had originally been scheduled to headline the Death of Glitter Mega-Concert. A resistance cell made up of a blond spacemonkey in gold spandex, a brunet wailer with curls down to his ass and leather chaps, and a bottle-redhead with an icon earring, took out the Goth guards to the stage and ripped down the black hangings. Backstage, an industrial blender was turned on, fed a large block of ice, and screeched out to the deathly silent audience via a boom mike lowered to within an inch of the whirling blades.

It made a nice introduction.

A heartbeat later, a single spot threw the center of the stage into high relief. Standing in the center of the spot, head thrown back, chest thrust out, pelvis thrust out even further in the white leather chaps with the blue satin shorts underneath them ... one Padawan Fuckmenow.

Erm, Kenobi.

Music howled.

Padawan howled.

The body thrashed, the mike bounced, the hair flipped.

So did the audience.

Words like benedictions, invitations, damnations, salvations poured from the painted mouth. Eyes wide with want and repudiation, ringed with kohl and glitter that flashed back the light, mesmerized and hypnotized the Goths frozen in their seats.

Then the oil bottle floated across the stage and slapped into one outflung hand. "Go with the Force, Padawan" the front row heard howled.

The Padawan howled back. The oil was upended, running in rivulets down that perfect creamy flesh, outlining straining muscles, highlighting lovely little nipples.

The Force was moving, already. And so was the Padawan's hand. Kenobi arched forward, falling to one knee, wailing into the microphone all the things he wanted the audience to do to him, singly and en masse. His other hand scooped up oil from his chest, ran it round to his waistband at the small of his back, and zoomed straight down the curve of his hindquarters.

His voice hitched.

The audience's strange paralysis broke.

Kenobi swiveled so that his back was to the audience, his face toward his Master. Through the satin of the shorts, perfectly framed by the white leather of the chaps, the distinct motion of several fingers going in ... and out ... and in ... and out ... provoked shrieks of pure insanity from the Goths.

It was all the distraction the Glitterdomians needed.

With a cry of sheer animal triumph, natives in every shade of the spectrum broke into the audience, tearing the offending black from the invading Goths, smearing glitter in their hair, paint on their faces. Several Goth found themselves in full-body sprawls, boots torn from their feet as glittery neon orange and blue polish was slapped on their nails. The darkness that had spread like a shroud over the imprisoned planet shredded like wet tissue under the determined assault of the Glitterati, and the rainbow once more ruled the planet.

Meanwhile, on the stage, those fingers were going in. And out. And in. And out. And in. And out. And in ...

"Five thousand credits!"

"Ten!"

"Forty!!"

It had worked. The powerful emanations in the Force had drawn out the minions of darkness, the servants of the Sith who were responsible for the Goth invasion. Vibrations in the Living Force were crumbling the amber prisons, and distracting the Dark jailers. All over the planet, as those responsible for monitoring the amber were drawn into the welter of emotions (mainly lust, considering the source), the imprisoned Jedi sprang free from their disintegrating prisons. Blood, gore, and revenge ... uhm, the Light fought and triumphed over their evil counterparts.

Except, of course, for the Head Evil Guys, who were currently gathered at the Main Stage watching Kenobi's fingers go in ... and out ... and bidding like crazy on poaching rights.

With a final scream that fried the microphone, those fingers went in and stayed in, rooting around a bit then nesting. Kenobi executed a perfect back flip (not easy to do with one's fingers up the fundament, but he'd obviously been doing a lot of training) and ended flat on his back (well, arched), legs splayed, displaying a rapidly widening wet spot in the tent of his shorts (again, perfectly offset by the white leather chaps. Say what one will about his master, Jinn knew how to dress the boy).

The bidding went through the roof.

As planetary treasury houses were emptied and universal treasure hordes were proffered, the ultimate in Evil prevailed. Ignoring the outpouring of credit into the Jedi bank accounts, one particular, most Evil Sith in the Galaxy snapped. Flinging out a mind whammy that slaughtered every other Sith in range, Sidious leapt over the bodies of his erstwhile allies and swept Kenobi's limp form into his skinny but surprisingly strong arms.

Jinn whimpered a little as his boytoy ... ah, Padawan ... left for the night. He knew he'd get him back eventually, but the Jedi were patient, and the longer the Sith was distracted, the better chance they'd have of defeating Evil in the long run.

Besides, he had a handy-dandy Padawan-finder embedded in the boy's braid. One night, and _poof_ (no, not like that, silly) his apprentice would be pulled willy-nilly through the Force back to his side. Then he could spend as long as he liked (damn the Council anyway) putting the poor traumatized lad back together again.

He grinned in anticipation.

In a galaxy far from the Resurrection of Glitter, red/yellow eyes surveyed the wreckage of what had once been a very posh attorneys' suite. Dead bodies littered the pile carpet. The smell of singed flesh and fresh blood gave him a tingle. Closing his eyes and calling through the darkness, Darth Maul reported to his master.

The eyes popped open. The mouth dropped open. The channel of communication abruptly became one way.

Ooooooooooooh.

A Sithly wave of anticipation rolled through him. It was time. Time to rise up. Slay his master. Claim his place as Numero Uno Sith Lord.

Get him some o' that sweet Padawan ass.

Nodding politely to Master George as they crossed paths on the sidewalk outside the attorneys' office, he smiled. It was a frightening smile. The Force shivered.

With anticipation.

**END.**

(it's not my fault. Really). 


End file.
